


Still Anxiously I Wait

by AnonymousPumpkin



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Reunions, Vinh Shepard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she comes to him, he is overjoyed. His voice is deep and tired when he greets her, but he sees a change in her at the sound. The darkness that has settled so deeply into the lines of her face lifts, ever so slightly, and her eyes seem bright again. Without thinking, he reaches for her hands. He squeezes too tight.</p>
<p>Thane and Shepard's reunion in Mass Effect 3, rewritten to be less...lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Anxiously I Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much me being a grumpy bitch about the SHIT content we got for Thane in ME3. Intended to be multi-chapter, but, knowing me, that probably won't pan out. If it doesn't, have this new and improved reunion, because...yeah. A) My Shepard would have so much more to say than what was said and B), my Shepard wouldn't fucking jump his bones in the hospital lobby....
> 
> Also! This fic has a [soundtrack](http://8tracks.com/godcomplexloading/still-patiently-i-wait) that I published _months_ ago, back when I first drafted this.

When he hears her voice, he’s certain that he must be dreaming. He’s heard nothing from her for months, but worse than that has heard nothing _about_ her in months. It’s only been a few days ago since he’d heard the news about Earth, and ever since then there has been a heavy weight in the core of him. He cannot shake the terror that he has lost her without ever knowing if she heard his goodbyes, if she got _any_ of his messages, if she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved her. He remembers the last time they saw each other, when he was watching her walk away in handcuffs, helpless and silent. He remembers the last time they spoke, when she refused to say goodbye, the last time they kissed, with more softness than he would’ve expected from her. He hadn’t known then that they would be apart so long. If he’d know, he would have kissed her longer and harder. He would have held her hands so tightly that he left imprints of his fingertips on her skin. He would have told her that he loved her. Worry has his head pounding, and when he sleeps his dreams are terrible. His disquiet is exacerbated by the tension and anxiety that is running through the Citadel at the news of Earth’s fall. He is not the only one with a loved one on the fallen planet, and the despair of others only fuels his own.

He had heard rumors that the Normandy had docked on the Citadel, but without anything concrete he’d dismissed them as just that. He had tried to ignore the small floundering of hope in his chest. He wasn’t sure he could handle the disappointment.

Thane lays a hand over his chest, fingers digging into the hard scales as if trying to physically force the air into his body. He is restless; he can feel energy buzzing just beneath his skin and he wants to get up, to walk around. But today is a bad day. Just turning his head makes his eyes swim and his brain pound and his chest hurt. He almost lost his breakfast just getting up to relieve himself hours before, and the nausea has persisted since then. The sounds of activity outside his room grate on his ears and his nerves. His thoughts are too scattered and fuzzy for him to entertain himself with memories, and even his attempts at meditation have failed.

He loses track of how long he just lays there, staring at the ceiling. Disjointed words and emotions tumble through him, random and listless, but they all come back to her. Knowing that she is in danger, that she could be in pain, that she could be dying, that she could be _dead,_ and that he can do nothing more than lay in this bed...it is overwhelming and enraging. He growls low in his chest, equal parts frustration and despair and, unable to contain the energy a second longer, manages to push himself upright. He takes a moment to allow his stomach to settle and his mind to drift back into his skull, and then he pushes himself off the bed. It’s inadvisable to push himself on days like this, he knows, but a part of him, a large part of him, doesn’t much care. He is dying anyway, isn’t he?

It is a long and laborious walk to the lobby. There are other places he could go, to the roof or to the garden, but he can’t imagine walking that far.

He stands in the back of the lobby, leaning against the wall with his hands folded at his waist. The buzz here is louder but less distinct, and it is almost pleasant compared to the constant tramp of hurrying feet and the shrill pitch of worried voices in the ward. The shadows still hold him like one of their own, something he is proud of. There is very little he was once capable of that he can still do, but in stealth he is still a master. Perhaps it is ridiculous to cling so fiercely to these little bits of himself, or of what he used to be, especially for someone who claims to be at peace with his death, but he does it nonetheless. It is comforting, in its way. It gives him a bit of dignity.

He sees her by accident and at a distance. He is watching the comings and goings of the constant stream of visitors. The door opens, he sees a flash of deep blue. Curiosity draws his gaze, disbelief holds it.

He sees the uniform first, crisp and shining. When he realizes, it is as if a clamp has fastened over his throat. It is her. He knows the way she moves intimately, could recognize her stride in a crowd of perfect clones. She marches over to the counter as if she is charging across a battlefield. Her left hand swings as if she is holding a shotgun; she looks naked without it. Her voice cuts through him like a blade, though he is too far to hear the words. She is accompanied by a man he doesn’t recognize, but who is unmistakably military as well.

He doesn’t approach her. He cannot move his feet. Disbelief and joy and terror are warring within him, and until a victor emerges in his heart, his body is frozen. If he had had any doubts before of the truth in the Reaper rumors, it is gone now. Her face is dark, her eyes almost empty. Her shoulders are bowed and he sees now that though she moves with the same urgent stride, she is almost stumbling forward. She is _forcing_ herself to move. When she turns from the receptionist towards him (towards the door, he knows, towards the _door_ ), he can see colorful bruises and barely-healed scrapes on her face and bared arms. She ducks through the hospital quickly. He doesn’t follow her, but he watches and he listens. She spends a few moments in a room far from his own, and when she practically sprints through the lobby to leave, she doesn’t notice him in the shadows. It is equal parts cowardice on his part and obliviousness on hers. She doesn’t notice him, and he doesn’t call out to her.

Only when she has truly gone does he move. He moves towards the receptionist and gets what information he can from her. It is a brief conversation; he knows better than to press for very much. Just an incredulous question: _Was that Commander Shepard?_ Just as stupefied, the receptionist can only agree, and let spill more than she should. There is another human, she tells him, admitted from the Normandy into intensive care. He thanks her, and assures her that he is feeling alright. But the energy is back, buzzing under his skin and threatening to explode, and he needs to walk.

 S _he’s alive_. The realization is even more shattering than the thought that she might have been dead. His chest feels tight. For a moment, he can’t even comprehend what to do next. He quickly sends a message to Commander Bailey asking for confirmation about the Normandy docking at the Citadel. It will be a few minutes before he will get an answer (he knows which time of the day C-Sec is busiest), and while he waits, he walks to intensive care, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman Shepard was visiting. He should feel a bit bad, he supposes, for snooping around, but all he feels is a heady rush that he has something to _do_ and that it has to do with _her_.

There is a great deal of activity, nurses and doctors running back and forth, and in the end, a glimpse is truly all he can get. He sees a face that is more bruise and blood than skin, and hears words tossed back and forth that makes his stomach clench in concern. He can’t stay long before he has to return to his own room, exhausted and excited and shaking.

He composes Shepard a message almost immediately upon returning to his room, but it takes an embarrassingly long time to get the words right. He is half tempted to write down his every thought and send it to her because he knows that she may not come back to him and this may be the only chance he will have to share his mind with her again, but there is an idealistic part of him, recently reawakened after years asleep, that refuses to believe that he will never get the chance to tell her aloud, and would prefer reticence. He spreads his hands over the white sheets, lost in the memory of the first time he came to her in her quarters, of her hand in his, of her mouth on his, of the eternity they spent staring at the window above her bed, counting the stars.

When she comes to him, he is overjoyed, though she catches him on a bad day and he barely has the energy to show it. His voice is deep and tired when he greets her, but he sees a change in her at the sound. The darkness that has settled so deeply into the lines of her face lifts, ever so slightly, and her eyes seem bright again. He hasn’t even said anything yet, beyond a simple greeting. The thought that he might have brought her some joy simply by being almost makes him smile. That he could have so profound an effect on someone so grand is...humbling. And uplifting. And tragic. Without thinking, he reaches for her hands. He squeezes too tight. She looks at his face for a fraction of a second and then looks down.

“Thane.” He has not forgotten how his name sounded from her lips, but it is a blessing to hear it again nonetheless. She smiles when she says it, and she cries when she says it. “It’s been too long,” she says, eyes roaming over his chest, shoulders, arms, anywhere but his face. Her voice is cool and calm, with little hint of the passion or affection he allowed himself for a short time to get used to. She sounds so _cold_ , and for a second, he is confused and almost pulls away from her. Immediately his mind jumps to the worst conclusion: it is war and he is dying and it has been so many months and they were only involved for a short time. The dread is overwhelming and he almost pulls away, but he is reluctant to lose the feeling of her. Then, before he can collapse upon himself, she continues, just as collected as before, just as soft, “I was beginning to think I’d never see you again.”

She says it without a hitch in her voice...but he hears it anyway.

_Oh_.

He is struck speechless. He has spent a great deal of time thinking about his death and her absence, and she must have done the same, for all that he wishes she hadn’t. With all the time they had spent apart with no contact, with his illness getting worse, and now with the Reapers truly invading...he had begun to fear one of them would cross the sea before they had a chance to meet again, and now he knows she fears the same. He tries to find the energy, the clarity of mind, to say something to comfort her, but he cannot seem to think of anything. How can he convey the overwhelming terror, the equally overwhelming joy, and the longing so deep that it transcended words? He just squeezes her fingers tighter and prays for them.

She doesn’t seem to mind the silence, luckily. He lets his gaze drift down as well, looking at their hands. Her fingers grip his wrists lightly and their palms fit perfectly together. He struggles still to find something to say, to fill the silence, to tell her how much he’s missed her.

"I sent you messages while you were incarcerated,” he begins, wishing he could be the one of the two of them to allow his emotion to show, “but I suspect they never made it past the guards…”

Her smile grows truer, softer. Her grip on him tightens ever so slightly, and her eyes become sad. She leans in, so close now that he can feel her breath on his collar, can hear the way it catches. She makes no move to kiss or embrace him, seeming to draw pleasure just from the increased proximity. He understands.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “They didn’t allow contact with anyone. They wouldn’t even let me see Altair.” His heart squeezes, sympathy for her welling up. He knew how she had missed her son on their brief mission together, and to be denied the sight of him again, after all that had happened… It must have been very hard for her. He wishes he could…

“There is no need to apologize, siha. In this, I know that you had no control.” He rubs the back of her hand, slides his fingers between hers, turns her palms over; he is unable to keep his hands still, and is eager to re-memorize every bit of her that he can. “It is good to see you again.”

They force casual conversation for a few minutes with the awkward verbal fumbling of people who’ve spent too long apart. They don’t mention his illness, her mission, or anything of any real consequence. She comments on the plants in the hospital window and he admires the colors of the artificial sky. They build a fragile bridge in between silence and comfort, and he is the one to smash it to pieces.

“What are you doing here?” He is certain she would not have come to the Citadel purely on his invitation, though a part of him wishes she would have.

Her face darkens. The weight falls on her shoulders again. “Visiting a friend. Ashley. She got hurt protecting me.”

Ashley. He remembers the name. A colleague...or far more than that. Shepard had brought up her name a few times in the past, and each time she had, her eyes had become unfocused and distant. She spoke only praises of the woman, both personally and professionally. He knew that there had been something between that them that went deeper than just being comrades. They had been through hell together, and had supported each other through it. Their reunion just before the relay mission had gone disastrously. It was the first time he’d ever seen Shepard truly shaken. She obviously cared for Ashley a great deal. He thought of the glimpses he’d caught of her, of her body that was more bruise and blood than flesh, and shuddered.

“The human in intensive care?” He rubs at his neck, trying not to wince. His breath catches when he lifts his arm; he tries to hide it. From the way her eyes narrow, he doesn’t do very well. He thinks for a moment, deciding not to dwell on it. “Your enemies may try to finish her off here while she is defenseless,” he considers aloud, not out of any attempt to alarm her, and almost immediately he dismisses the thought as somewhat far-fetched. Instantly, however, there is a change in Shepard’s face. She looks hard, determined...and scared. Thane’s heart stops for a moment. He should comfort her, tell her that it was only his overly paranoid mind, that there was really very little chance that anything would happen in the midst of this crisis...but he doesn’t say any of that. “I will look out for her,” he promises instead. Selfish, selfish man.

Her face softens, brightens, though she doesn’t smile. It is still more than enough for him. She reaches for his arm, conveying more emotion in that one touch than in a thousand words. “I appreciate it, Thane.” Her touch lingers for a moment.

“I am near the end of my life,” he says plainly, the first time either of them have mentioned it. Shepard winces, but regains control of her features quickly. “It is a good time to be generous.” He means to say it gently, for her sake, but he is tired and uncomfortable and he almost spits the words out.

Immediately the shadows are back. She opens her mouth to speak. He knows what she is going to say, and he cannot let her. He is weak, yes, but he is not useless. Not yet. Before she can say anything, he continues, “I have only a few loves left, and you are my last.” Her mouth shuts with a snap. “Let me do what I can for you.” He feels like he is almost begging...and he supposes he is. There is so little he can offer her any longer, and he will take every opportunity he can to prove himself, even if it is protecting someone who doesn’t really need much protecting.

She lets out a small noise, a whimper from the back of her throat. She moves quickly towards him, but the moment just before their lips meet seems to last an eternity.

Thane is used to hungry kisses from Shepard, strong and passionate and bordering on desperate. They had parted from their first kiss with bruised lips, both struggling for breath in the best way. The night before the relay, she had seemed to devour him, overpowering and commanding. He has known kisses hard and rushed from fear that each one was the last. He has known kisses overpowering and possessive from an unspoken need to belong.

This kiss is none of those things. She is so gentle now that he barely feels the pressure on his lips. His entire body goes warm, and his mind momentarily goes blank. For the duration of their contact, he knows nothing but the contented bliss of the two of them together again. His hands slide to her waist, and she grips his arms and doesn’t squeeze. She kisses him again, and once more, each more fleeting and fragile than the last.

This time she doesn’t pull away from him, hands hovering at his waist with cautious uncertainty. He lets his forehead fall onto hers. She lets out a shaking breath, and laughs softly. They just stand, sharing breath. He wants to apologize; one of his medicines makes his breath foul. She doesn’t bring it up.

“I missed you,” she says to his breastbone. His breath catches at the raw emotion, the vulnerability in her whisper.

Shame and love wrestle within him and though he wishes he didn’t have to, he speaks.

“I should warn you,” he says softly, “that you may not want your final memories of me to be in this hospital. Kepral’s Syndrome is...not kind.”

Though he says the words and means them, he is selfishly delighted when she shakes her head. “There’s not a chance I’m leaving you now, Thane.” She looks up, pale eyes looking into his from mere inches away. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to those eyes. “No matter how ugly it gets...no matter what happens, I will always be here. I’ll always come back to you. We’re in this together, remember?”

He lets out a hum of pleasure, slides his arms around her. A wave of love for her crashes over him quite suddenly, and he wants nothing more than to stand here like this for an eternity. She shifts so that her head is resting on his shoulder, finally letting her arms touch him, holding him gently against her. She remembers how to hold him so it doesn’t hurt, arms low and loose around his middle. She is warm and smells of soap and almonds. They hold each other for a long while afterwards, until he is too weak to stand and she is too tired to deny him a rest. As they ride the elevator to his hospital room, he leans against the wall, unable to keep up a strong farce even to her. She keeps a hand on his arm, not holding him up but promising support if he falls. They walk arm-in-arm to his room.

She leaves him to visit Ashley, but she promises she’ll come back the moment she’s done. She kisses him again before she leaves, harder this time. She leaves her taste on his lips, metallic and sweet. He stares after her a moment, and then the dizziness gets to be too much, and he lies down. His head continues to spin even when he is no longer upright. Another unfortunate side effect from his medication. He is exhausted, but he refuses to fall asleep. She is coming back to him, and he will not waste a single second.

When he is recovered enough to do so, Thane ponders her statement and all it implies.

_No matter what happens, I will always be here._

He has deteriorated these past months, and he knows he will weaken further before his time comes. It is equal parts shame and selfless mercy that makes him want to push her away, but it wars with and loses to the longing and loneliness that he feels at her absence. He wonders if she will want to stay by him and keep the bitter memories of his last months. He wonders if she can hear the rough grating that already colors his voice. Kolyat hears it, though he pretends not to, and Thane can feel it burning in his throat. It distorts his subvocals and catches his breath when he inhales. It is by far the most kind of his many ailments these days, and that is what he fears. He has seen the pain in the faces of the other patients’ visitors, hidden while they chat in the hospital room but plainly visible when their loved one’s back is turned. He doesn’t want to imagine that pain on her face. He can’t bear to think of how her heart will break every time she leaves him. It would be better for her to remember him as he had been before. He had not been at his best on their mission, but he had been immeasurably better than he was now.

And yet...and yet… Here he is. Waiting for her.

She comes back less than an hour later, slipping quietly through the door. At the sound he pulls himself from meditation, turning his head to look at her. He watches her drop her bag by the door and shed her jacket like a lead weight. He watches the faint glow at the base of her neck when she turns to put something gently down on the table. He remembers waking in the middle of the night months ago, too restless to sleep. He remembers a firmer bed, thinner sheets, the soft glow of the fishtank. He remembers stroking the cool metal of her spine and watching the shadows the dim light cast across their bedsheets.

She turns around slowly. “Thane?”

“I am awake.”

She lets out a hum he can’t decipher and crosses the room. She leans down and kisses his brow quickly. Without either of them saying another word, she slips into the bed beside him, maneuvering herself so that they both fit comfortably, he on his back and she on her side. It is a tight fit, but she makes it work. She settles against him, head resting on his arm, legs tangled already with his. He finds her hand and holds it on his stomach. She absently strokes his fingers with her thumb, and every now and then turns her head to press her lips against him. He wonders idly if the effects of their early kisses have faded. Before they would practically devour each other and it would be _hours_ before…

“What time is it?” he asks.

The answer comes out in a yawn. “Twenty, I think.”

He hums. She shifts so that her head comes up under his chin, pulls her hand from his to trace patterns over his abdomen. The touch sends shivers through him. He missed her. Fiercely.

“I missed you,” she says again. Her voice breaks and her hand suddenly still, grabbing at his shirt. “So much.”

He is overwhelmed by affection and relief. The realization comes again that _she is alive_ , and this time it truly gets through, and he turns over as much as is comfortable. She sits up on her elbow, and in this position their faces level with one another. She reaches up and cups his face, stroking his bottom lip with her thumb. She looks at him intently, drowsily, trying to memorize his face through the slightly inebriated haze of their kisses. He doesn’t need to memorize her, but he takes her in anyway. The sharp angles of her face, which make her look much more stern than she is, and the pale blue of her eyes that makes it seem like there are stars shining from her soul.

“I missed you,” she repeats a third time, whispering.

He leans in to kiss her this time. He tries to pour every thought of her, every moment of longing and worry, every time he slipped into memories of her, into his kiss. Their first kiss was too cautious and their second too bittersweet. This third kiss, however...it will be perfect. When he pulls away, she pulls him back in, hand on the back of his neck. At first, she is just as desperate as he, and he tastes the longing on her tongue. She kisses him again and again, quick and hard. It is when he takes control again that their affection becomes gentle once more, partially out of preference and partially out of necessity. Though he would never admit it aloud, as they kiss the burning in his chest grows until it feels like his lungs will move no more. At first, he pushes through the discomfort, unwilling to stop. He has a year’s worth of kisses to make up. But she notices; of course she notices. The second that drawing breath becomes truly painful for him, she pulls away.

“Sorry,” she whispers. She strokes his bottom lip, lips quirking into a smile. Her pupils are blown, and every now and then her gaze drifts to look at shapes and colors he can’t see. She is panting, biting her bottom lip. She kisses the corner of his mouth one more time, desperate to have the last word in their physical debate. “Sorry.”

He isn’t too tired not to feel somewhat ashamed, but he only shakes his head and pulls her into his arms, wanting to have this if he can have nothing else. Before, their relationship had not been nearly so contact-heavy, but he is still shaking, still high from the knowledge that she is still his to hold, for however long they have, and he cannot imagine letting go of her now.

He wishes they could remain this way a little while longer, but the burning in his chest grows in intensity, and he is getting drowsy. The heat of the sun is coming in from the window, dimmed but not blocked by the window. It has been a long afternoon, and...

“Siha.”

“Hmn?”

For a moment, he is almost too ashamed to say it. “Before I sleep, I need…”

“Ah.” She sits up, pulls away. He almost reaches for her, but forces himself to turn away. “Right.”

She watches him take his medicine intently. Even though he knows that his illness makes her uncomfortable, she forces herself to watch him, to help him, to acknowledge it. About halfway through the long methodical procedure, she works up the courage to help him, remembering every step despite how long it’d been since they’d been together. She hums  to herself as she assembles his mask, and even sings a few words while she is watching him breathe. Though he doesn’t need it, she helps him fit the mask over his face, remembering how to shift it so that it is comfortable. As he breathes in the warm air, slightly too bitter, she leans over the machine, running a finger along its chrome back. It is black and red, an intentional but agreeable design.

“It’s better than the one we got for you on the Normandy.” She sounds pleased.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.” She looks back up at him, watching his face intently. She recognizes precisely when the rush of medication hits his lungs; in that instant, she relaxes ever so slightly. He chuckles at her thorough scrutiny, and she wrinkles her nose. “Good?”

He almost grins. They went through this same routine, albeit less intimately, when he first came about the Normandy. “Good.”

She grins and turns away.

A nurse comes to check on him as they are putting away his things, and is obviously surprised to find anyone there. She immediately strikes up conversation, asking seemingly innocuous questions about the hospital. Thane only half-listens, but smiles to himself at how artfully she negotiates to lengthen her visit for a few more hours. Not once does she need to pull rank. He’s proud. She then changes the subject again, asking about the nurse’s family, his work, what he’s heard about that medi-gel situation… He tunes them out after a few minutes, letting Shepard’s voice play as a soothing background to the comfortable monotony of cleaning the machinery.

When they are alone again, she slides back into his bed. By this point his medication has left him feeling slightly more energetic than a particularly lively houseplant, and he can barely do more than shift his arm to accommodate for her. She kisses the underside of his chin and whispers something too low and blurred for him to hear. But the affection in her tone carries through easily enough. Then she lays her head on his shoulder and goes still save for the slow circle she traces on his hip. Comfortable quiet falls. Artificial darkness creeps in, but the artificial warmth remains.

Though he fights it at first, the heat of her body and monotony of her finger on his skin lulls him into a deep sleep. His dreams are vivid but mild. He dreams of doing mundane everyday things like cooking or reading or making his bed. He dreams of walking along the edge of a building, gun over his shoulder, looking out over a surging crowd. He dreams of walking down a desert path, his love’s hand in his. Ruins rise in the distance; he explains their significance to her, though he barely knows them himself. She laughs, grips his hand tighter. When he turns to kiss her, she is gone, a swirling cloud of sand in the hot wind. Then he is lying down in his bed, hot air wafting through an open window. It is early morning, but already it is comfortably hot. Colorful curtains dance in the breeze, and he can hear the deep sleeping breath of his love beside him.

When he wakes the first time, Shepard is looking up at him. He has rolled over onto his side, but she hasn’t moved. Their faces are only an inch or two apart, and he can feel her breath on his lips. The darkness is even more complete, casting shadows on her face that are dramatic and deep. The pale blue of her eyes stands out in the darkness, and the corners crinkle when she sees he is awake.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, voice slurring. She must be on the edge of slumber herself. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t, siha,” he assures her. “I am a restless sleeper these days.”

She laughs softly. “Me too.”

This close he can see every freckle on her face, every fleck of darker blue in her eyes. There are a few small scars on her chin and cheekbones that he doesn’t recognize, and a tiny spot of black below her ear that is new. He knows she can see him just as intimately, and from the exaggerated, drowsy look of concentration on her face, she is memorizing him just as completely. Her eyes flutter shut a few times in her studying, but she seems desperate to stay awake. She reaches up and strokes his chin, smiles. Sleepy fondness overtakes him, and he rolls over to kiss her one more time. This time she wrinkles her nose and laughs softly.

“Dragon-breath,” she says, or something similar. His translator doesn’t understand her exactly, but he gets the gist of it. Before he can apologize, she kisses him again. “Go back to sleep, Thane. You need your rest.”

Even when she is half-asleep, her “Commander” voice demands nothing short of immediately obedience, and he dutifully drifts back to sleep.

She is gone when he wakes the second time, but when he boots up his omni-tool, he sees twenty-one messages in his inbox, written and left unsent over a year.

**Author's Note:**

> Haha this is the same Shepard featured in literally all my other Mass Effect fics (except Lazarus, I guess). I don't know if you guys knew this, but I've played Mass Effect three times, and each time I've done it with the same Shepard. Vinh Shepard is my precious.


End file.
